“Because—­now listen well to what I am going to say, Nebenchari—­because I can tell you (I do not swear, for our great master Pythagoras forbade oaths), that this very chest, with all it contained, was burnt in the grove of the temple of Neith, in Sais, by order of the king.”

Phanes spoke slowly, emphasizing every syllable, and the words seemed to strike the Egyptian like so many flashes of lightning.  His quiet coolness and deliberation gave way to violent emotion; his cheeks glowed and his eyes flashed.  But only for one single minute; then the strong emotion seemed to freeze, his burning cheeks grew pale.  “You are trying to make me hate my friends, in order to gain me as your ally,” he said, coldly and calmly.  “I know you Greeks very well.  You are so intriguing and artful, that there is no lie, no fraud, too base, if it will only help to gain your purpose.”

“You judge me and my countrymen in true Egyptian fashion; that is, they are foreigners, and therefore must be bad men.  But this time your suspicions happen to be misplaced.  Send for old Hib; he will tell you whether I am right or not.”

Nebenchari’s face darkened, as Hib came into the room.

“Come nearer,” said he in a commanding tone to the old man.

Hib obeyed with a shrug of the shoulders.

“Tell me, have you taken a bribe from this man?  Yes or no?  I must know the truth; it can influence my future for good or evil.  You are an old and faithful servant, to whom I owe a great deal, and so I will forgive you if you were taken in by his artifices, but I must know the truth.  I conjure you to tell me by the souls of your fathers gone to Osiris!”

The old man’s sallow face turned ashy pale as he heard these words.  He gulped and wheezed some time before he could find an answer, and at last, after choking down the tears which had forced their way to his eyes, said, in a half-angry, half-whining tone:  “Didn’t I say so? they’ve bewitched him, they’ve ruined him in this wicked land.  Whatever a man would do himself, he thinks others are capable of.  Aye, you may look as angry as you like; it matters but little to me.  What can it matter indeed to an old man, who has served the same family faithfully and honestly for sixty years, if they call him at last a rogue, a knave, a traitor, nay even a murderer, if it should take their fancy.”

And the scalding tears flowed down over the old man’s cheeks, sorely against his will.

The easily-moved Phanes clapped him on the shoulder and said, turning to Nebenchari:  “Hib is a faithful fellow.  I give you leave to call me a rascal, if he has taken one single obolus from me.”

The physician did not need Phanes’ assurance; he had known his old servant too well and too long not to be able to read his simple, open features, on which his innocence was written as clearly as in the pages of an open book.  “I did not mean to reproach you, old Hib,” he said kindly, coming up to him.  “How can any one be so angry at a simple question?”